Chapter 10

Chapter

Ten

I open the wardrobe in our capital chambers, wanting to change my clothes I am still wearing from the day before. My brain creates a comforting foggy state for me to fall into, my body taking over the muscle memory of the task. I try to recount the message again in my head, but the words are lost, replaced by the emotions it conjured.

"We can cancel." 99 leans against the giant fireplace mantel, looking into the empty hearth where fake flames leave no ash. "Allister would understand."

"No." I run a comb through the ends of my hair. "I am alright. It just brought up some feelings I haven't experienced in a while."

The haunting image of the last time I saw my sister creeps into my mind, but I stuff it down, not wanting to remember the day she left with no explanation.

I knew once I settled here and my thoughts were in order, I would be confronted with the guilt of leaving so abruptly. I lied to myself and said I would write to Leema eventually, even though I knew the letters may be refused by her.

"I do not think they will use her to punish you," he reassures slowly and carefully, like he doesn't want panic to ensue if I have not thought of that possibility.

"No, pregnant women are sacred in the Estate. The temple will not harm her, that I know for certain."

I set the words firmly in my mind like I am writing it into existence. I can only assume if she is pregnant, she has made the pilgrimage to the Temple of Divine Mothers. Even if she has asked for me, I am not the reason she is there.

"Are you ok if we still go?" I ask, shoving the book Calliape requested in my shoulder bag.

He nods, but I can tell he is only doing this for me by the way he physically inches closer, like he is shielding me with his body, and if it were up to him, we would still be in the beacon room analyzing messages.

If we do not get as far away from this building and that beacon as possible, I run the same risk of wanting to analyze the message from Thea in my own way.

Why did Leema decide to pilgrimage to the Estate and why is she asking for me? Surely news has spread to her that I have left Cosima and the terms of my departure.

I clear my throat, determined not to fall into a pit of inexplicable questions. "This afternoon threw us both off our axes, but tonight is special. We need it even more now, but if you think it's a bad idea . . ."

He holds either side of my shoulders, stilling me. "I do not think it is a bad idea."

99 makes me ride in front of the hover bike this time. I'm practically in his lap with his arms on either side of me to hold the handlebars, nowhere to grip but his thighs, which are so tight on my hips, squeezing to hold me in place and bridging on uncomfortable.

When I protested this new riding position, he used his official Viathan commander's voice, saying we needed to travel to the settlement faster than before to arrive on time and this way was safer for me. I humored him but rolled my eyes when he dragged me into his lap.

I stir from the depths of my thoughts. I realize 99 hasn't said a word since we left the capital building's courtyard.

"99?" I ask through the tether.

He does not answer, too focused on his own thoughts. I sink in further and catch a passing memory of the day he heard Oliver and his mother had been recruited by First Son's regime. How helpless he felt to greater powers beyond his control.

The news my sister has returned to the very place I ran from has stirred up his insides with familiar heartbreak. His family loved each other. Their departure was sudden and uncharacteristic. But it is different for me and Leema; our relationship is . . . complicated.

" I'm not trying to scare you. I'm sorry," he says, but his mind flashes to that heartache again before he dissipates it.

"I know. Will you try to enjoy the scenery with me?" I lean my head back into his helmet and think of how I want to kiss him in this moment, to hold onto him and breathe in unison until we both feel calm and regulated.

I feel the vibration of the agreeing hum against my back. "The moment we are able, nothing will stop me, Priestess."

I'm still comfortably tucked into his chest when we arrive at Allister's house. August is the first thing I see as our hover bike comes to a stop just outside the little gate before the front garden walkway.

I hop off at the sight of my friend, and 99 grunts as I use him for ungraceful leverage. "I'm so happy to see you!"

"There they are!" August is already halfway down the short path with wide, inviting arms and roughly hugs me with a warm laugh.

"Was worried for you." 99 smacks him on the shoulder in an even more aggressive embrace.

"Ah, in and out like always. Was gone before anything happened," he replies, referring to the dangerous place he was delivering supplies. "Ferren, you look well. This is very pretty," he compliments and touches the fern hair pin still holding some of my locks back.

"Thank you, it was a gift," I say shyly and glance over at 99.

"That so?" August gets a sly, little smile on his face and places his hands on his hips. "I'm impressed." He playfully elbows 99.

"August! I said to greet them, not keep them out of the house," Allister calls, wiping his hand on a piece of linen then beckoning us inside. His tone tells me he is used to August's antics.

"Couldn't stay away from me, could you?" Allister stops me at the threshold with a smile and a gentle pat on my shoulder.

The teasing makes me smile nervously, but I know it is friendly. I hope that these small acts will one day feel natural to me and I won't overthink each interaction.

The automatic door behind us shuts us inside the modest house, the soft but muffled sound of music floating in from another room. The smell is incredible, not just from the savory food being prepared but the warmth in the air that seems like a permanent scent. The furniture is well loved and sparse, blankets and books askew and worn. It's very lived in but in a beautiful, personalized way.

It's a home, not a room or a chamber. A family home.

99 seems stiff and out of place in his armor, but he tilts his head down at me and sends me warm, affectionate amber light, and suddenly I realize why the feeling of this home is so familiar. 99 grew up here with his family. The warmth lingers here just like the amber light I feel when he sends me love.

Allister instructs us to sit in the gathering room on the worn furniture surrounding a low table and then he lets us know he is going to grab tea.

Calliape emerges from the kitchen with a glowing smile to match the lovely yellow dress she wears. Her cheeks turn a little pink when she glances briefly at August.

The moment she looks at me, I realize I forgot to bring in the book she requested last time I saw her. "Oh no, your book!" I blurt out.

She looks a little surprised at the greeting but then laughs. "Hi, Ferren, 99."

She hugs me quickly before plopping down in the seat farthest from August.

"I'd be happy to take you to the library for this book, Calliape," August offers as he leans back, feigning a sigh like the journey is long and hard but he is willing to do it. "Hover bike is the best way, I think. Looked . . . cozy ." He throws a wink at 99.

Calliape fidgets, she is less serene than the last time I saw her, a flustered edge that was not with her before.

"No, it's just in my bag outside," I say quickly to cover for her.

"I will retrieve it," 99 offers stiffly.

"I got it." I laugh and dash out of the front door again, toward the bag attached to the side of the hover bike.

Commander Yeva and Commander Wesley straighten as I run out. I hold up my hands for them to calm themselves and then wiggle the little leather-bound book to let them know my reason for coming back out and interrupting their dutiful surveillance of the area.

I reenter the house, almost walking straight into Allister. "Oh, apologies."

"Try this." He holds out a spoon. "Calliape said it was too much salt. I think it's fine."

I can hear August chatting away with 99 in the next room, the soft music floating in from the kitchen. Allister has a way of making me feel very comfortable, like I have known him for much longer. He waits expectantly for me to try his stew with patience I know 99 inherited.

I take the spoon from him and sip. "It's not too salty, but I am used to Estate food," I explain, taking another taste. "Everything is very seasoned."

"Well, I am no cook, but overseasoned is my specialty, hides the mistakes." He laughs.

"No, no, it's very good." I smile.

"Come, I want to show you something." He gestures with the returned spoon for me to follow him.

For some brief but odd reason, I hesitate. It doesn't feel strange to be alone with 99's father. It's just, I didn't think I would be spending any time with him without the filter of 99's thoughts deciphering some of Allister's word choices.

The kitchen is a lot like the rest of the house, a little messier with pots and cut-up, discarded vegetable pieces. Allister stirs the large pots of steamy broth, then places the spoon sloppily to the side.

I awkwardly stand next to a small, round table with rickety looking chairs surrounding it, watching him wipe his hands and hoping he is the one to break the silence.

He turns to me, leaning his back against the countertop. "I thought about what you said."

"What did I say?" I do my best to not sound defensive.

"About handwritten books. I searched the whole house for one, and none of mine or the old children's books were anything but printed copies. But!" He pushes off the countertop and pulls a bound-looking parcel out of a high cupboard. "Then I remembered this."

He hands me a suede book with long cording that wraps multiple times around the middle to keep everything together. When he nods encouragingly, I start to unwrap the tie.

"My wife had many recipe books, but she journaled her favorites and added her own flare to them."

It takes me a minute to realize what he said as I stare at the beautiful, scrolling penmanship of a recipe on the first page. There are some words underlined and circled, and in the margins are tiny doodles from a child.

When I look up at him, he is smiling. I run my finger down the margin carefully, a little astonished at what he is sharing with me.

"This is . . . It's beautiful."

He hums affectionately as I turn the page to another lovingly written recipe with flowers drawn on the border.

"The stew I made tonight is . . ." He flips a few pages while I hold the journal steady. "Here. I've made it so many times, I haven't looked at the recipe in years."

I scan the page and can't help but notice the words pinch of salt is underlined twice aggressively, like she was reminding him, like he had made it for her in the past and she found it too salty then. And now that he isn't looking at her careful instructions, he has fallen back to salting it to his own specifications.

My heart feels tight at that thought. I'm in absolute awe of him showing me such an intimate manifestation of his memories. It's inspiring how willing this man is to trust and even accept me and my way of thinking enough that he thought long and hard of what I said in contradiction to his original opinion. Enough that he needed to understand by trying to find handwritten books, and when he couldn't, he found his wife's journal of their family recipes to help guide the understanding.

He flips to another page, and I see a doodle that's clearly done by a child in a bright green color. It's a messy looking depiction of a face with a downturned mouth and an arrow to the name Oliver like a proud signature of who adorned the page.

"Oh yes, my youngest did not like this one." He laughs, and I can't help but join him. "I think one of the pages is even ripped out. My sons did not like the vegetable-based recipes!"

I smother another laugh, thinking of tiny 99 and Oliver tearing pages of their poor mother's journal so she couldn't make a recipe. "Thank you for showing me this, Allister. I loved seeing it." Just as I close the pages, my eyes quickly scan over a drawing of a sky ship and I notice another messy signature beneath it. But the name is clearly different from the other, the penmanship crisper, more practiced.

And then I realize it might have been 99's birth-name. It was there, written in a time when it was still used and I just missed it. I could not make the letters out fully, but I have no intention of opening it again to satisfy my curiosity. He took vows to forsake his name when he became the 99th Commander. My curiosity of those vows drove me to research the details on my data pad some time ago. I won't deny the thrill that ran through me reading about previous commanders of his status, who shared their birth-name with the person they chose to enter into a marriage union with. Opening the page and reading the name would feel like tarnishing that sacred tradition. I want to know . . . badly . . . but not like this.

Allister's grin reaches the crinkly lines around his eyes as he takes the journal back and gingerly wraps the long suede cord around it again. As he reaches to place the precious item back in the tall metal cupboard, he glances over his shoulder, eyes catching something behind me with a pleased expression.

"Ah, here is one of the little vandals now."

99 is standing in the threshold of the room, his helmet off and eyes watching me in an unreadable expression. I shift on my feet and smile, probing our tether to see what he is thinking, but he does not answer, just stares.

Allister's hand on my shoulder draws my attention back. "I'm going to take in the tea if you will help me."

"Oh, of course." I take the little metal bowl of sugar that doesn't fit on his tray.

"Relax," Allister leans in to whisper to 99 as he passes him.

I follow after Allister, but 99 gently encircles my wrist with his bare hand for me to wait behind with him. When we are alone, his other hand slides up to my neck.

"Everything alright?" I ask, wondering why he stopped me.

"Yes. Are you comfortable here?" His finger glides over my collarbone.

I smile, seeing his worried brow. "Yes, I love being here."

He leans in before I can say more, lightly brushing his lips against mine, and I know he is making good on his promise of kissing me the first moment he is able. I close my eyes tightly and sink into the sweet kiss, the sugar bowl clasped in my hand, squished between my breasts.

"I am glad we still came," I say before stealing another peck.

"Me too." 99's eyes flick up to the cupboard where Allister keeps the handwritten recipe book. I can hear the echo in his mind of hearing Allister and me laughing in here while he sat in the gathering room, and with it comes an immediate wave of amber light.

"I hope you like salty stew," I whisper.